


Ribs Cracked Open, A Home Made Within

by adoctoraday



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Coming Untouched, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Getting Together, Hair Washing, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, M/M, Massage, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Prostate Massage, Sensation Play, Serious Injuries, Sexually Inexperienced Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, hypersensitive Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27758527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adoctoraday/pseuds/adoctoraday
Summary: For Geralt, the Trials brought not just strength and speed but an acute sensitivity to the world around him that, at the worst, left him in agony at the mere brush of a hand against his. Vesemir had trained him to withstand it, to be strong, to endure every touch and injury until he could master the sensitivity and exist in a world that despises him.And then he'd met Jaskier and everything had changed.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 184
Kudos: 890





	Ribs Cracked Open, A Home Made Within

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies! This is my first foray into Geraskier after watching the Netflix show like...three times in as many weeks lol I haven't played the games or read the book(books? Idk how many there are lol), so most of the lore and canon is from the show. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_ Life is pain boy— _ Vesemir had always told them that, but it wasn’t till he’d survived the Trials once and been found strong enough to endure it again that he’d  _ really _ begun to understand just what that meant. 

His brothers were like him; mutants, freaks, monsters, but  _ unlike  _ him, their skin does not throb and ache when the breeze blows against it. When a hand touches him it is agony—he feels every single whorl and callous like it is hot sand against his nerves. 

When Vesemir realizes the extent of the mutation he forces Geralt through further training—he stands outside naked in the sun, rain and snow, shivering and sobbing until he’s mindless with hypersensitivity, skin quivering over his bones. 

He’s forced to practice hand to hand combat in nothing but his smalls against his brothers, one at a time, then in a trio, then all of them at once—until he’s learned to cope with the sensory input, weaponize it and become the best of all of them. 

After that he’s sent to the whorehouse at the bottom of the mountain with enough coin to keep him there till he’s learned not to spill at the first touch. The whore sends him away after an hour, disgusted with his sobbing and weakness, and Vesemir looks at him with disappointment in his eyes. 

His armor is fashioned with a silk lining, something to soothe his skin, and he trains and trains and trains in it until he’s used to the sensation of it against his skin. He grows used to injuries, to pain, to feeling  _ too much  _ nearly always, and then, Vesemir sends him out into the world. 

He spends long lifetimes alone, avoiding touch, begrudgingly spending coin on whores when the ache to have a human touch grows to be too much, and always, he regrets it. He is easily overwhelmed still, and embarrassed, and always comes too quickly—a waste of coin. 

The disgust in their eyes makes him retreat further into himself. He wears thicker armor and gloves and learns to push aside the sensory input of the world around him so he can function. He sleeps in the woods with Roach, the only place he feels remotely safe enough to remove his armor and let the air touch his skin.

And then he meets Jaskier. 

Jaksier who sings too loudly and  _ touches  _ him repeatedly, proprietarily, like he has  _ any _ goddamn right to put his hands all over Geralt and he nearly snaps the man’s wrist after the first day of seemingly endless touching. 

His presence is so vibrant Geralt can feel him through his armor. He can smell the youthful exuberance on him, the lemon sharp notes of excitement, the cinnamon honey sweet taste of his arousal near constant, and it makes Geralt’s skin prickle with something he does his very best to ignore. 

When Jaskier sings Geralt could  _ swear _ he feels the words against his skin and it’s erotic and terrifying and he does everything he can to shut the damn bard up, but  _ nothing _ works. He forces himself to allow the touches from the other man;  _ you must be strong and endure it  _ he can hear Vesemir say, and so he does. 

And after a few years he grows used to Jaskier—though he’s no less wary of the reactions the man induces in him. He hates the way Jaskier touches him and craves it in equal measure—certain that if he told Jaskier about his sensitivity the other man would look upon him with eyes full of pity. 

He avoids camp when he’s used a potion, too afraid to find out what would happen if he let Jaskier see him looking like the monster they name him. If Jaskier were to touch him with his blood running hot and black, Geralt fears it would break him. The world is already  _ too much _ when he is like that, were he to have a gentle touch upon his skin, he might just explode out of it at the sweet agony. 

Now though, he may have no choice. 

There hadn’t been just one wraith, there had been  _ three _ , and now his blood is running black from his potions and everything is  _ too much _ and the only thing holding his insides where they belong is his hand against his armor. Blood seeps out around his fingers and he bites back a groan as he makes his way unsteadily toward their camp. 

He’d wait out the potion like normal, but if he does that he’s fairly certain he’ll bleed to death and he’s not ready to die  _ quite _ yet. 

So he staggers through the woods back to the campsite, eyes narrowing as the glow from the fire burns into them, wincing when the sound of Jaskier strumming his lute gets louder. He’s grown used to it, but now, alongside all the other sensations plaguing him, it’s like the music is digging into his skull. 

He groans and stumbles into the small clearing, aiming for his bags where his potions are, but he steps wrong and his guts they-they  _ twist _ and agony fills him like a river overflowing a dam—he is swept away by it, breath locked in his chest as his vision goes fully black and he collapses to his knees. 

“Geralt! Oh sweet goddess  _ Geralt _ , what, what do I do?” 

A hand touches his face and he nearly sobs at how much it hurts. 

“Okay, breathe darling, just breathe. I’ll, I’ll get the Kiss and the Swallow and you just, you just sit there and breathe.”

Geralt hears the clink of his bag’s buckles being undone, the shift of fabric. The firelight against his closed eyes makes his head pound like a cave troll has taken a hammer to it. His breaths come in shallow pants, each inhale tugging at his wounds, blood seeping out between his fingers with each exhale. 

“Okay, open your mouth for me darling, yes, just like that Geralt, here we go.”

He swallows the potions and shudders, groaning through the blood in his teeth as they start to work. 

“Let’s get this armor off and I’ll stitch you up,” Jaskier murmurs, fingers working deftly to unbuckle him, words soft and kind but not particularly soothing. It’s all too much and Geralt can’t help the sob that finally fights it’s way past his lips when the first piece of armor slips off. 

“Shit, did I, I’m sorry darling, just, try to hang on,” Jaksier whispers softly, “hang on Geralt.” 

He doesn’t want to—he wants the sweet bliss of unconsciousness where he won’t have to feel anything at all, but the Cat won’t allow for that, it spreads adrenaline through his veins so he stays  _ painfully _ awake. 

Jaskier keeps his touch light, peeling away layers, but it doesn’t matter when Geralt is like this—it’s just another agony for him to endure. He hears Vesemir’s raspy voice telling him to be still and obeys—muscles trembling with the effort, pain flaying him alive from the inside out. 

He goes quietly when Jaskier guides him down flat onto the grass, bared to the waist, wounds deep and bleeding sluggishly. He throws an arm over his eyes, trying to block out more of the light and Jaskier gently nudges it away despite his warning growl. 

“I know, your eyes are sensitive. I have something better my darling,” he assures Geralt and then moments later there’s silk brushing against his skin, and the scent of Jaskier overwhelms him. It blocks out the blood and fear stink, so he inhales a little deeper and something in him relaxes just a hair. 

“There we are. I had that specially made in Lyria you know. Four layers each of silk and cotton—no light will be getting through there.” 

Geralt hums lowly, gritting his teeth against the new onslaught of pain that’s coming—he hears Jaskier threading the needle and he does not fear it, but he shudders nonetheless. A hand presses to his chest gently and he swallows down a whine, it’s too much, too much by far and tears start to well in his eyes. 

“I need you to hold still for me Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs. “Scream and cry if you need to, just hold still.”

“Fucking get on with it,” he snarls, voice thick with pain, every brush of air against his skin like he’s being ripped open again. 

“Of course,” Jaskier agrees, and then deft fingers pinch his wounds and the needle slides in and he breathes out raggedly, tears wetting the fabric against his eyes. His skin shivers violently and there’s nothing he can do about it as Jaksier sews up his gut, murmuring soft words of reassurance that mean nothing to his overwhelmed brain. 

He feels his lips move and knows he says something but he’s falling away from his body, sinking through the earth, going away away away…

When he comes back to himself he can hear the fire crackling and Jaksier’s voice, faintly humming, hoarse and raw like he’s been singing for days on end. 

It’s...oddly soothing. 

His wounds feel nearly healed so it  _ must  _ have been a few days that he’d been out of it, mind shut off to prevent him from going mad at the overstimulation. The next thing he realizes is that he’s clean and dressed in a new tunic, torso covered with his cloak, and that there are fingers brushing through his hair gently— _ and it doesn’t hurt.  _

It doesn’t make him want to crawl out of his skin, it doesn’t overwhelm his senses and he doesn’t know what to do but lay here and  _ breathe _ . 

Jaksier must be able to tell he’s awake because his fingers slow for a moment before resuming their gentle pathways through his hair, nails dragging ever so softly against his scalp and he can’t help the quiet sound of pleasure that bubbles up in his throat. 

“Am I hurting you?” Jaskier asks at the sound, fingers stilling again and this time Geralt has to fight a whine at the loss of the touch. He shakes his head minutely and works his jaw loose so the words can be set free. 

“Feels good,” he rasps, “don’t stop?” he asks, hating the pleading note in his voice that makes him sound weak and wanting. It’s been  _ so _ long since touch hasn’t hurt, hasn’t overwhelmed him, gods forgive him for being a little greedy. 

“Of course darling, whatever you need,” Jaskier murmurs, resuming his gentle petting, humming what sounds like a lullaby. Geralt sinks into the touch, breathing slow and even, for once not in pain and the sheer lack of agony makes him want to weep. 

Eventually his body demands food and Jaksier helps him sit upright against a log, remaining oddly quiet as he brings Geralt bread he’s warmed in the coals with jerky and melted cheese atop it. Geralt watches him move around their camp, breaking it down quickly and efficiently, his normal chatter quieted. 

Something like fondness fills him when he sees how well Jaskier has taken care of Roach. Jaskier pets her nose and offers her half an apple, smiling in delight when she whuffs at his hand and then lips at his shirt, nudging his belly with her nose in a thank you. 

Jaskier lifts his gaze and it finds Geralt across the clearing, the fire flickering between them as he pets Roach’s cheek, a soft, shy smile forming on his lips as Geralt stares back at him. His own lips curl into something that could almost be a smile and heat rises on his neck when Jaskier blushes and looks away, the scent of his happiness like warm bread. 

It feels like  _ something _ has shifted between them but Geralt can’t say how or why, only that he suddenly finds himself not shying away when Jaskier smiles at him and lays a hand on his arm as he passes by. 

He might even lean into it a little. 

* * *

The next time he’s injured he sits quietly and lets Jaskier clean and stitch the wound, shivering at the touch and the way it makes something warm curl into his belly. He ignores it as best he can, but it doesn’t help that Jaskier is close enough for him to inhale his honey lavender scent. 

He closes his eyes and swallows down the scent, letting it fill his lungs till it’s the only thing he can smell. The coppery scent of blood fades away, his and the griffin’s, until all that’s left is honey and lavender. 

“It hurts you when people touch you, doesn’t it?” Jaskier asks quietly as he wipes off more blood from Geralt’s torso. 

Geralt opens his eyes and peers into Jaskier’s bright blue eyes, surprised that the bard is proving to be so astute. He hums his agreement and Jaskier looks thoughtful for a moment before he begins stitching the wound on Geralt’s chest. 

“But not me?” he guesses, gaze flickering up to meet Geralt’s golden eyes. 

Geralt hums again, this time a little more uncertain, and Jaskier’s hands still, wary hesitance in his scent. “Should I stop?” he asks, fingers hovering over Geralt’s skin. 

Geralt shakes his head, “It’s...okay if it’s you,” he admits. “Don’t know why.” 

Jaskier studies him for a moment before nodding, cheeks pink and scent flooded with the sun warmed peach scent of pleasure. It makes Geralt’s mouth water, the desire to lean in and lick his skin sudden and unexpected. 

“I’m glad you trust me,” Jaskier murmurs, “I’d hate to hurt you darling, not when the rest of the world seems so bent on doing that already.” Jaskier hums and tilts his head, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he ties off the stitches and then uses his dagger to cut off the thread. 

“I suppose that it’s something to do with the mutations that make you a Witcher,” Jaskier says thoughtfully as he threads the needle again and bends his head down to his task. “Are all Witchers like this?” he asks curiously. 

Geralt shakes his head faintly, “Just me.”

Jaskier shoots him a sympathetic smile and shakes his head, “I’m sorry my friend,” he murmurs and then makes a thoughtful sound, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Is it just touch? Or sound too?” 

Geralt sighs and nods, “All senses are heightened by the Trials. I underwent them twice and emerged…” he trails off, lost for the appropriate word. 

“Hypersensitive?” Jaskier suggests lightly, humming thoughtfully when Geralt nods in agreement. 

“That’s why you stay away when you’ve taken Cat,” he says slowly, softly. “And why you hate my singing and playing,” he says with a sad little laugh. “Gods Geralt, I’m sorry I’ve been torturing you,” he says with a shake of his head and Geralt wrinkles his nose at the stench of shame and grief polluting the scent coming off Jaskier.

“It’s fine,” he grunts, shivering at the warmth of Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder, the touch gentle and light. “I’m used to it. Have to be.”

Jaskier makes a disgruntled sound and pulls back to shoot him an annoyed look. “That’s ridiculous Geralt, if something I’m doing is  _ hurting you _ I want you to tell me!” 

Geralt rolls his eyes and looks away, jaw flexing. It’s fine, he doesn’t need Jaskier to  _ baby  _ him just because he  _ senses  _ too much. He’s used to it, and it’s just another part of his life as a Witcher—he doesn’t need Jaskier’s  _ pity.  _

Firm fingers grasp his chin and he’s so shocked by the gall of it that he allows himself to be turned back to face Jaskier. Blue eyes blaze at him and he shivers at their intensity. “Don’t you  _ dare _ stay silent if I’m hurting you or if you’re feeling overwhelmed,” Jaskier demands, grip firm on his chin. 

“I am your  _ friend  _ Geralt, and I won’t let you suffer.”

He feels stripped bare under Jaskier’s gaze, a lump forming in his throat at how sincere Jaskier is—no one has cared about his comfort, not in a very long time. 

He nods and grunts, gaze sliding away, but he can still feel Jaskier’s gaze on him, steady and knowing in a way that makes him shiver. 

“Good,” Jaskier murmurs, releasing his chin to turn back to his work. “Bloody stubborn man,” he mutters quietly, and Geralt can see the fond smile curling his lips upwards from the corner of his eye. 

When he chances a full glance, Jaskier smiles at him and something warm blooms in his chest that takes his breath away. 

* * *

Three weeks later an early spring snowstorm catches them outside and though Geralt could smell it coming, he wasn’t going to ride ahead and abandon Jaskier to the snows. Instead, he pulls the man onto the saddle behind him and bows his head against the blistering cold winds, guiding Roach forward. 

It takes hours till they reach a small village, the inn even smaller and they’re somehow lucky enough to get the last room. He can hear Jaskier’s teeth chattering and his own hands are numb, so he knows the younger man must be nearly frozen half to death. 

They order dinner and a bath and while Geralt lights a fire in the hearth, Jaskier hovers nearby, trembling and shivering. Geralt’s gaze sweeps over his white hands and blue lips and purses his own—he needs to get the bard warm or he’s going to get sick. 

Grabbing the blanket from the bed, he lays it around Jaskier’s shoulder and drags a chair over to the fire, forcing the younger man into it gently. Jaskier tries to protest, “Your a-armor, I n-need—”

“You need to get warm, now shut up,” Geralt growls, standing over Jaskier till he’s sure the man will stay in his seat. Jaskier gives him a disgruntled look, but stays put, watching him as he strips off his armor and lays it out to dry. 

His boots come next and he flexes his toes—stiff from the cold, but fine. 

There’s a knock at the door and then a trio of young men and women bring in a basin large enough for three and begin filling it. By the time they’re done the room is steamy and warm and Jaskier has let the blanket fall from around his shoulders, his lips a more normal peachy pink color. 

Geralt nods at the tub, “Get warm,” he orders, reaching for his blade to begin sharpening and oiling it. 

“Don’t be daft Geralt, we can both fit,” Jaskier announces, already shrugging out of his doublet. “Come, lets both get warm and relax from the long journey,” he encourages, blue eyes dancing as he strips out of his chemise, baring his toned torso to the air. 

Geralt looks away as he always does, determined not to look too closely, determined not to  _ notice _ Jaskier any more than he already has. He grunts in disagreement and then whips his head up to glare when Jaskier tosses the chemise at his head and misses. 

Jaskier laughs good naturedly and works the laces of his breeches open before pausing and coming over to Geralt, the scent of his skin overwhelming this close. He hesitates and then reaches out, fingers brushing against the linen of Geralt’s shirt and he can feel the vibrations of flesh on fabric in his skin. 

It makes him shift nervously and Jaskier’s gaze softens even more, “Why don’t you join me and I’ll wash your hair?” he suggests, fingers barely brushing at the ends of Geralt’s hair before slipping away, but still, that small touch is enough to make his scalp tingle and a shiver run down his spine. 

He is weak, he knows it, and maybe Jaskier does too, because a gleam of satisfaction enters his eyes when Geralt sighs and nods. He waits till Jaskier backs away and then rises from the chair and turns his back on the other man. 

He still hears it when Jaskier crosses the room and rifles through his bag, bottles clinking until Jaskier finds what he’s been looking for. Geralt lays his shirt over the back of the chair and then works the buttons of his breeches undone as Jaskier pours something into the water behind him. 

He hears the viscous drops hitting the water and then the scent of rosemary and peach warms the air and he hums in pleasure—it’s not overwhelming at all. Shucking his breeches he tosses them on the chair too and then turns to the tub, lips lifting minutely in amusement when he sees Jaskier is already in the tub, sunk down in till the water is just beneath his nose. 

Blue eyes sweep over his form, lingering on his arms and chest before carefully avoiding the rest of him. Jaskier watches as he steps into the water, moving quickly to submerge most of his body in the steaming water. Normally he’d use Igni to heat it up further, but Jaskier isn’t designed like he is to withstand extremes. 

Instead, he sinks down till the ends of his hair are soaked and his chin is just above the waterline, closing his eyes to breathe in the scented air, muscles relaxing slowly. The water shifts around their bodies and he can sense Jaskier’s blood thrumming and smell the warm cinnamon honey scent of his arousal, still light, but tantalizing. 

They lay there together in quietude, Jaskier humming softly occasionally, his feet brushing against Geralt’s before retreating and inevitably coming back before settling again. It’s intimate in a way they haven’t been before and it leaves him uneasy at how he craves more. 

When the water begins to cool Geralt reheats it and Jaskier laughs softly, tilting a teasing brow, “Why darling you’re nearly as self indulgent as  _ I  _ am,” he murmurs, coaxing a smirk out of Geralt. He wiggles his fingers, “Turn round, let me see that head of yours,” he orders gently and Geralt goes along without protest, shifting to sit between Jaskier’s spread legs. 

Deft fingers pluck the leather strip from his hair, being gentle not to tug or pull on any stray pieces. Jaskier sets it aside and reaches for a small green bottle before offering it to Geralt. “This one is rosemary peach, like the oil. It’ll clean your hair—may I?” 

Geralt nods and waits nervously for Jaskier to begin, and perhaps it’s obvious because Jaskier laughs softly and strokes wet fingers over his shoulder, “Breathe Geralt, if it’s too much you tell me and we’ll stop,” he orders lightly and Geralt wants to protest that he’s not so weak he can’t take a simple hair washing, but he keeps his words to himself—Jaskier is nearly as stubborn as he is and he’s not looking for a fight right now.

He nods in agreement and Jaskier hums softly before reaching for a cup and submerging it in the bath. “Close your eyes and tilt back your head,” he murmurs, fingers slipping around the nape of Geralt’s neck and then around to his throat, delicate and gentle on his skin. 

Geralt shudders at the touch; the warm, slick sensation of skin against skin making his gut clench with want. His belly heats as Jaskier gently pours water over his hair till it’s thoroughly soaked, the stray rivulets that travel down his temples sending goosebumps over his skin. 

“Keep your head tilted, I’m going to start now.”

Geralt hums and he swears he can  _ hear  _ Jaskier’s smile in the way he laughs, soft and sweet. 

The scent of warm peaches and rosemary fills his nose and he can  _ taste  _ it, like he’s just bitten into a rosemary and peach tart, the flavor so strong and warm on his tongue he can almost feel the pastry crumble. Lute string calloused fingers start scrubbing at his hair and scalp, gently massaging the soap in so it starts to lather, the scent growing stronger. 

It feels… _ extraordinary.  _

He bites his cheek  _ hard _ , till copper floods his mouth because he can’t, he can’t groan and let on how deeply affected he is by just  _ this.  _ Geralt takes deep controlled breaths so he doesn’t writhe and arch into the touch, cursing his cock as it starts to heat and thicken. The cinnamon honey scent of Jaskier’s arousal teases at his nose and his cock throbs, heat pouring through his veins in response.

“Is this alright Geralt? Not too hard?” Jaskier asks softly, voice barely above a whisper. He manages a weak nod and Jaskier hums in response, fingers pressing down a little harder on his scalp and  _ gods it’s so good.  _ Geralt groans and Jaskier stills for a beat before continuing, “That sounded like a good noise, hmm? You enjoying yourself a little finally my White Wolf?” he asks teasingly. 

Geralt locks his jaw so he won’t beg for more and nods weakly, fine tremors starting in his hands from how sharply his body is reacting to the gentle touch. His scalp feels sensitive and tingly, warmth building under his skin the longer Jaskier’s fingers work against his skin. 

He grips his thighs hard enough to bruise and tries to steady his breathing, but then Jaskier’s nails scrape over his scalp and his cock jolts and he can’t stop the moan that slides out of his unwilling throat. 

Heat suffuses his face, embarrassment making his insides crawl. 

Now Jaskier will  _ know _ , will finally understand how  _ weak _ Geralt is. All he has to do is look into the water and see how hard Geralt is from this simple touch and he’ll see Geralt for the freakish creature he is. 

“Does that feel good darling? It sounded like you enjoyed it,” Jaskier says softly, voice as warm as a summer day and it makes Geralt’s hands tremble where they rest against his thighs. Jaskier’s breath is warm against Geralt’s neck and he shivers and grits his teeth, eyes screwed shut tightly as he tries to fight against the onslaught of sensation. Fingers leave his hair and stroke gently over his cheek and he trembles, barely restraining himself from leaning into the touch to seek out  _ more _ . 

“Geralt, it’s okay if it feels good, I  _ want  _ it to, I  _ want  _ you to relax and enjoy yourself. It pleases me to see you feeling good for once.”

The fingers brush over his chin and then slip away and he turns his face, giving in to the urge to chase the touch. 

“Please,” he whispers, embarrassed by the way he’s so weak, so wanting, but without Jaskier’s hands on him he feels bereft, the loss of sensation worse than an overload of it. He sighs happily when Jaskier’s fingers sink back into his hair, the slick sound of the lush suds under Jaskier’s nails filling his ears as they scratch gently over his scalp. He can feel the sweet sensation of it running down his scalp, raising goosebumps on his neck and shivers over his spine as his cock throbs again, filling quickly now. 

“Alright darling, whatever you want you can have,” Jaskier promises in a soft croon that’s almost melodic, voice sweet and heavy with promise. He begins massaging Geralt’s scalp, lean fingers furrowing through the strands over and over again, the tug of tangles being picked apart is deliciously painful and Geralt groans with each one. He fights to hold himself still as his need grows, tension building in his belly as his cock thickens and throbs with every touch and sensation. 

The sensations layer atop each other, compounding and feeding back in a loop that has him breathing unsteadily as the water laps at his skin and his nipples pebble from the difference in temperature between the warm water and the cool room. It’s another layer of sensation that makes his head grow fuzzier around the edges, makes it hard to think beyond what he’s feeling and it feels like he’s drowning in it, losing himself in how Jaskier touches him. He’s breathing unsteadily now and his cock is fully hard, and then Jaskier starts  _ talking.  _

“That’s it Geralt darling, let me make you feel good, you deserve it my strong, brave wolf.”

Geralt makes a choked noise and shakes his head, emotion thick in his throat choking back any meager words he might have offered in refutation. 

“Hush now darling, you do, you deserve to feel good. You protect everyone else from monsters and suffer their cruelties and ignorance all without complaint, let me take care of you.”

“ _ Jask _ ,” he gasps as the other man drags his nails from the crown of Geralt’s scalp all the way to the nape of his neck. 

“That’s it’s my wolf, enjoy this,” Jaskier murmurs, voice hoarse and low in his ear and Geralt bites his lip till it bleeds so he doesn’t sob at how  _ good  _ it all is because  _ gods _ he’s been with well trained whores before and nothing has ever affected him like this before. Jaskier starts massaging the nape of his neck with his thumbs, fingers digging into the tension that’s accumulated there and this time Geralt can’t hold back his throaty whine. 

He shudders as Jaskier does it again, his melodic voice crooning in Geralt’s ear gentle praise about how  _ good  _ Geralt is, how  _ kind  _ and  _ sweet _ and how no one else sees it, but Jaskier  _ does  _ and he writhes, cock throbbing at the overwhelming sensation of praise and touch, balls clenching tight with the need to come. He can smell Jaskier all around him, cinnamon and honey arousal, crisp apple of pleasure and satisfaction and the warm fire scent of his happiness and it tears at Geralt, rips into his guts where he’s soft and sensitive because all his armor is gone now and all that’s keeping Jaskier out is him and he can’t he can’t do it anymore, doesn’t  _ want _ to. 

“Let  _ go  _ Geralt, let yourself feel it,” Jaskier whispers, voice husky and low as his fingers press hard into Geralt’s scalp, nails digging in a moment later so he cries out and reaches for the edges of the tub to cling to. His head is dizzy and light and then Jaskier tugs him back by his hair and pulls him into his lap and Geralt goes rigid at the sensation, completely overcome. Pleasure spirals down his spine like melting butter over warm bread and he cries out as the tension in his belly finally,  _ finally _ breaks and he comes entirely untouched. 

“ _ That’s  _ it darling, look how good you are,” Jaskier whispers, awed and hushed like he’s seeing the face of a god and not just Geralt spilling into the water around them. “ _ Gods _ , look how gorgeous you are,” he says on a soft groan, fingers tightening their clutch at his hair and it makes Geralt moan and arch, pleasure throbbing out of his scalp and he’s never--it’s never--not like  _ this _ .

Geralt whines and Jaskier nuzzles at his hair, “Shh darling, just feel it,” he encourages, fingers resuming their massage in his hair and Geralt shakes from head to toe as he continues to come, feeling like Jaskier’s touch is  _ everywhere  _ on his body. It goes on and on as his belly ripples with convulsions and his cock spills, Jaskier’s voice soft in his ear. “You gorgeous thing,” he croons, “I bet that feels good doesn’t it darling?” 

He whines and manages a weak nod, breath hitching in tiny sobs, stars dancing behind his closed lids as the earth spins under him, wild and breathless. He shivers as it gradually slows, breaths coming in uneven pants, skin so sensitive that the lapping of the water makes him whine and squirm, too much and not enough all at once. 

“Shh, just breathe,” Jaskier murmurs, “let me wash out your hair,” he says, “just breathe.”

Geralt makes a soft sound and goes limp in Jaskier’s hold, shuddering when Jaskier pours water over his head and rinses the soap from his hair. “You’re doing so well Geralt darling, so well,” Jaskier murmurs, voice tender and sweet, “I’ve got a lovely cream to soften your hair, just hold still and I’ll rub it in and then you can relax a little.”

Geralt nods, head fuzzy and it’s a little hard to think, but he knows he wants Jaskier’s hands on him more, so that sounds good. He smells more warm peach and rosemary and hums happily when Jaskier works it into his hair, massaging his tender scalp gently before tying the hair up in a bun atop his head. His fingers are gentle as they trace Geralt’s face, down the prow of his nose and across his jaw, delicate as butterfly wings on his skin and he shivers, the sweet touch making his body sing. 

“You look utterly transcendent darling,” Jaskier murmurs, the smile in his voice apparent and Geralt blushes, turning his face into Jaskier’s neck where he can hide from the way those words make him feel. Jaskier chuckles softly and tightens his arms around Geralt, one around his waist and the other crossed over his broad chest to brush his fingers gently against Geralt’s throat. He shivers and arches into it, frightened at how easily he bares his throat for Jaskier to get more of that soft, wonderful sensation. 

Jaskier could slit his throat open like this--one swift move would have his lifeblood spilling into the water alongside his seed and he thinks dizzily that maybe that wouldn’t be the  _ worst  _ way to go. 

“You feel relaxed to me, would you like it if I washed you darling?” Jaskier asks, fingers pressing into Geralt’s hip, tracing patterns that Geralt thinks hazily might be music notes. He nods and hums softly, still floating on sensation and reveling in being held close to another body without being overwhelmed or in pain. It’s far too much for him to comprehend--he only knows that he’s never felt like this before and some part of him is terrified at how easily Jaskier has taken him apart. 

Jaskier wets the cloth hanging over the edge of the tub and grabs his bar of soap, the one that smells like butter and cream and vanilla and works it into a lather before he starts with Geralt’s hand, lifting it from the water to scrub it gently. He goes slowly, cleaning each finger, over the wrist, down the forearm, fingers tracing the musculature in the wake of the cloth. Geralt is dizzy with the affection, skin singing at the way Jaskier touches him--never too soft to make him frustrated and never hard enough to hurt. 

He leans his head back and inhales Jaskier’s scent, humming in pleasure as it fills his nose. There’s something soothing about it, something that makes him think of  _ home _ even though he’s never really had one and it makes an ache take up residence in his chest, deep and throbbing and painful with how good it is. Tears burn in his eyes and he turns his face into Jaskier’s throat, hiding them as they fall slowly. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier murmurs, worry in his voice. “Are you--should I stop?” he asks gently, “is it too much?”

Geralt shakes his head and lifts a hand to capture Jaskier’s where it’s come to rest against his collarbones. “Don’t stop,” he whispers hoarsely, voice raw with emotion. “Please.”

“Of course Geralt, whatever you need,” Jaskier promises and gods, Geralt wants to believe him so badly it makes him hurt. The rag dips down over his chest and he gasps at the rough touch of it against his sensitive nipples, pleasure hot in his belly once more and he makes a low throaty sound as his cock twitches and begins to fill again. 

“Jask,” he groans, lifting a hand to cover his face, embarrassment filling him at how sensitive and easy he is--Jaskier must find it amusing that the normally stoic Witcher is reduced to a whining mess with little more than a hair wash and a few touches to his nipples. 

“Shh darling, it’s alright, I want you to feel good,” Jaskier murmurs, rubbing the cloth over his nipple again, more deliberately this time, and he shudders at the way it rubs and aches. A moan claws out of his throat and Jaskier continues to wash him, not spending an overlong time on his chest before sliding it down his belly and Geralt gasps at the way it tugs gently on the hair there, his cock twitching again at the new stimulation. 

“That’s it Geralt, just  _ feel _ ,” Jaskier orders, lips pressing to the skin of Geralt’s temple, the words whispering across his skin sweetly, the scent of mint on his breath from the leaves he chews near constantly. It’s sweet and cool against his heated skin and he suddenly aches to know what it tastes like against his own lips. Desire shudders through him and he’s confused and wanting--he’s never wanted someone like this, with every fiber of his being, with a desperation that makes him blush and ache. 

The cloth travels down to his thigh, massaging and scrubbing at his skin and he groans as his muscles twitch and his cock throbs, growing harder with every touch. “Look at you darling, feeling so much and so good,” Jaskier whispers, sounding awed and Geralt, Geralt doesn’t know how to deal with  _ him _ being the source of that emotion. No one has ever been in awe of him--they’ve hated and feared and touched him when he paid them to, but never has anyone done anything like this to him,  _ for _ him. 

When Jaskier uses the cloth to wash his cock he shouts in shock, the rough fabric scraping against the sensitive skin of the head of his cock before his foreskin gets pushed down gently and the drag of the fabric  _ burns _ . He sobs and arches into it, gasping as he’s quickly overwhelmed, cock still sensitive from the last time he came, but he can’t help chasing the sensation, the  _ too much _ of it. 

Jaskier makes a soft crooning sound and cleans him tenderly, hands gentle and caring and it just makes him harder, makes him cry softly because he’ll  _ never  _ have this again, never know peace and ecstasy at the hands of someone he trusts and it’s going to break him. Jaskier is going to unmake him and mold him into something new and it’s utterly terrifying and euphoric and he sobs, clutching at Jaskier’s other hand, pressing it flat against his chest to try and hold himself together so he doesn’t fly apart into a million pieces. 

“Shh darling, I’ve got you,” Jaskier murmurs, “just let go, let go Geralt and let me take care of you.”

The cloth slips down to caress his balls and Geralt shudders, groaning deeply as Jaskier squeezes them gently before reaching back  _ further _ and the rough touch of the fabric there, where he’s most sensitive and hidden, it has him moaning between gritted teeth and arching into it. Jaskier drags the cloth over his hole slowly, pressing down gently and Geralt sobs softly, blood pounding in his skull as he writhes in Jaskier’s embrace, turning his face into his wet throat to breath out shakily. 

His cock leaks steadily now, heavy against his belly and wanting. 

The cloth leaves his skin and Geralt whines at the loss, lips pressing to Jaskier’s skin as he does and they both gasp at the touch. Geralt mouths at Jaskier’s skin drunkenly, lips parting so he can taste the water on his skin and the scent of him floods his mouth, rich and heady. “Jask, Jask, please,” he slurs, begging weakly as he nuzzles into the scent of arousal pouring off the other man. 

Jaskier gasps and his hips shift and suddenly Geralt is aware that he’s  _ hard _ and it’s like molten steel pouring down his spine, the knowledge that Jaskier  _ wants _ and he can’t help the whine that rips from his throat in the shape of Jaskier’s name. He noses at Jaskier’s jaw and sucks at the wet skin and loses himself utterly in the way Jaskier sounds when he moans. 

“Geralt, Geralt darling, what do you want?” Jaskier asks breathlessly, free hand fluttering up to cup Geralt’s jaw, tilting his head back till his throat is perilously taut. “Geralt, look at me darling, look at me now,” he croons, thumb caressing Geralt’s jaw. He forces his eyes open, blinking stupidly in the low light, gaze meeting Jaskier’s bright blue one a breath later and the burning intensity of it makes his breath stutter. 

Jaskier smiles softly, “There you are my wolf, it’s so good to see you again,” he murmurs, “tell me darling, what do you want?” he asks encouragingly. 

Geralt swallows hard and moans softly when he can feel the pressure of Jaskier’s fingers against his skin, pressing down gently but firmly, holding him in place securely. “You,” he gasps, “want you,” he murmurs, words loose and slick, falling out of his lips too easily. Jaskier smiles and it makes his eyes dazzle--it’s like looking into the sun or seeing a shooting star streak across the sky. 

Jaskier’s fingers stroke his throat gently as he smiles at Geralt, “Then you shall have me,” he agrees simply before leaning in and kissing Geralt so sweetly it robs his breath and breaks his heart. He arches into it, chasing the taste of mint on his lips, gasping when Jaskier’s hand slides down his chest, nails scraping against his skin delicately. 

Jaskier kisses him stupid, smiling into it when Geralt moans and meets him greedily, head stuffed with cotton batting, cock thick and hot and wanting. Jaskier’s hand presses into his belly as he kisses him, thumb caressing his skin slowly, gently,  _ lovingly _ . It takes Geralt’s breath away how tender Jaskier is with him, how every touch is perfect and exactly what he needs, pushing him higher with nips to his lower lip and a bite of his nails against his belly. 

Geralt moans into his mouth and lifts a wet hand to push his fingers into Jaskier’s damp hair, clinging to him harder and pulling him closer, desperate for more. Jaskier groans in reply and drags his nails down Geralt’s belly, skating across his abdomen but avoiding his cock and Geralt whines, chasing the way it feels with a roll of his hips. He’s floating on sensation, a near unending moan in his throat as Jaskier sucks at his lip and bites, the sharp ache of it making him whimper. 

His cock leaks heavily and throbs, his balls heavy again, pulling tight as Jaskier grips his throat with one hand and slips the other lower, nails scraping against the tender skin of his thigh. Geralt groans and pants heavily against Jaskier’s lips, vision blurry with lust as Jaskier presses kisses to the corner of his mouth, whispering Geralt’s name like a prayer. 

He can feel Jaskier’s cock against the cleft of his ass he grinds down into it, gasping softly. “Jask,” he breathes, “Jask please.” 

“What my darling wolf, what do you need?” Jaskier murmurs, nipping at his jaw, his clever fingers tilting Geralt’s face so he can leave a mark on his throat that will be gone by morning but for now serves as a brilliant starburst of pleasure and pain, teeth just this side of too hard and he sobs, arching into it. 

He can’t even remember what it was he wanted, all he knows is he wants  _ more _ . 

“More,” he gasps, “ _ please _ !”

Jaskier groans and nods, licking delicately at the mark he’s left on Geralt, “Whatever you want darling,” he agrees, rolling his hips up so his cock slides between Geralt’s cheeks, hard and wanting. Geralt grinds down into it, breathless with desire, everything falling away except the places they’re connected. His skin is taut and aching, all the stimulation making his bones feel too big for his body, like he’ll fly apart at a touch. 

This time Geralt seeks out Jaskier’s mouth, moaning when their lips slide together wetly, tasting of mint and something, some combination of  _ them _ that makes his heart sing with how right it is. Jaskier’s fingers knot in his hair, tugging as he rolls his hips up and grinds his cock into Geralt’s ass. His other hand slips away and then back, fingers clever as they spread Geralt’s cheeks so his cock can slide between them more easily, the head of it nudging against his hole every few thrusts and his vision goes blurry as pleasure overwhelms him once more. 

He gasps and moans and cries out, as wanton as a whore as Jaskier kisses him and grips his thigh in a tight, nail biting grip that makes his cock throb helplessly. He’s held in place and made to take whatever it is Jaskier gives him and he could break free if he really wanted to, but no, this is exactly where he wants to be, where he  _ needs _ to be. Jaskier’s cock nudges hard against his hole and he shatters, eyes flying open to meet Jaskier’s gaze as he comes, shuddering and gasping at the explosion of pleasure through his body. 

Nails scrape against his thigh and Jaskier groans his name, rutting into his ass in a fervor now, gasping against Geralt’s lips before capturing them again and Geralt sinks into it, eyes falling closed as Jaskier consumes him. Teeth and tongue and lips bruise his mouth and he groans, aching for more, Jaskier’s name slurring between sloppy kisses, the scent of arousal and cum filling his nose. 

Fingers tug at his hair and he whimpers, cock throbbing harder as he continues to spill. His cock aches with the need to be touched, but still, Jaskier doesn’t take him in hand, only continues to kiss him and tug at his hair, nails scraping up over his belly. When those clever as the devil fingers pinch one of his nipples he howls, a whimpering sob rising in his throat and Jaskier growls in his ear, just as feral as Geralt. 

“That’s it my wolf,” Jaskier groans, cock throbbing against his ass, voice breathless in his ear. “Give it all to me my darling, give it to me.”

Geralt sobs Jaskier’s name because he doesn’t have anything else to give--Jaskier has cracked him open and reached inside where he’s raw and soft to grip it tight. 

Jaskier groans in his ear and Geralt can feel him beginning to spill against his ass, his teeth sharp against Geralt’s throat as he pinches the other nipple, Geralt’s large body shuddering so hard water splashes out of the tub in great cresting waves. He whines when Jaskier lets it go and then howls louder than before when those same fingers finally,  _ finally _ close around his cock. He’s so sensitive now that it rips sobs from him just to have his fingers squeeze gently on his cock. 

He writhes and whines when Jaskier strokes him, thighs trembling violently, his sharp whines filling the air as Jaskier’s hand slides down his cock slowly and then back up, his grip just tight enough to make the pleasure turn sharp, agonizingly good. It’s too much and he cries tears again, shaking and sobbing as Jaskier continues, the pleasure sinking into his gut like a white hot blade. 

It tears him to pieces, shatters him, and he begs for more like a whore, seeking out Jaskier’s mouth with his own. He sobs and cries out against Jaskier’s lips, great heaving gasps shaking his frame as Jaskier kisses his mouth, crooning his name sweetly, the fleeting touches of his lips not nearly enough. The tender touches of his lips to Geralt’s brow and cheek and the corner of his mouth are overwhelming when paired with the agony of his cock and he falls apart harder because of it. 

He’s near certain he’ll perish from this--his heart thunders in his chest and his lungs work like bellows, and he’s losing his godsdamned  _ mind _ with every touch and caress. And yet, it’s the best thing he’s ever felt—better than anything his own hand has made him feel, better than a whore or even the one time he and Eskel had fooled around as young men. 

“That’s it Geralt, one more, give me one more darling,” Jaskier croons in his ear and Geralt whines in terror because if he does, if he comes again, he’s going to fall apart like a statue smashed into dust. He won’t ever be the same again and it makes him weep with fear and ecstasy, clinging so tight to Jaskier that he  _ must  _ be leaving bruises, but the other man doesn’t stop him. 

He’ll be forever changed by this and that scares him as much as it thrills him and he sobs Jaskier’s name in a blind plea for more. No one has ever known him like Jaskier has, and no one ever will, after this because Jaskier has split him open and made a home for himself deep inside Geralt. 

It goes on and on and on, the torture, the agony, the  _ ecstasy _ . 

He writhes away from it and then bucks into it, Jaskier’s name always on his lips as he sobs, lashes wet and heavy, head pounding with every beat of his heart. Jaskier shifts and focuses his attention to the head of Geralt’s cock, the nerve endings as raw as if he’s been flayed and he shouts, water splashing out of the tub as he thrashes wildly, sobbing as he comes  _ again _ , the hot pulses of it burning him from the inside out. 

His stomach cramps from how hard his muscles contract and his balls throb, and he weeps weeps weeps, Jaskier’s name falling from his numb lips over and over again like a hymn. He’s drunk on sensation, head lolling uselessly as he gasps loudly, limbs twitching as he comes and comes and comes and Jaskier keeps stroking him steadily, relentlessly. 

Everything falls away under the deluge of sensation—his realization of the world narrows only to the places he and Jaskier are touching. His cock throbs and twitches as it spills and his balls ache with how full and tender they are. When Jaskier uses his free hand to massage them gently Geralt can do little more than sob his name and spill more, the pleasure being wrung from him like water from a cloth. 

His balls are released and he whines at the loss but then just as quickly is moaning again when Jaskier’s fingers slip further back and press into a spot just behind them that has Geralt seeing stars. It’s so good that his tired cock throbs and spills more and he whines in embarrassment over his own stamina and the way his cock pumps out more and more cum with every push of Jaskier’s fingers into that spot. 

“That’s it love, just  _ feel,”  _ Jaskier murmurs, “don’t hide from it,” he says and Geralt laughs hysterically, a sobbing thing laced with tears because there is no hiding, not anymore. Jaskier hushes him and massages that spot more, another finger slipping back to rub against his hole and Geralt groans long and loud as it spasms and clenches. 

He feels unexpectedly  _ empty  _ and for a dizzying moment wonders what it would be like to have Jaskier’s fingers inside him, touching him where he’s most vulnerable, making him feel even more and it makes him shudder in fear and delight. Surely that would ruin him, but he can’t find it in himself to not want it—he only wants  _ more.  _

He wants Jaskier to ruin him, to touch him, to make him feel every inch of pleasure he can before it’s finally too much and he breaks. When the sensation of Jaskier’s hand upon his cock sharpens into real pain he whines and gasps Jaskier’s name weakly, lips bruised and swollen as he finally whispers out  _ stop _ . 

Jaskier releases his cock and pets gently at his thigh, the other hand slipping away from his hole to press against his chest and hold him firmly. Geralt clings to him in return, certain that if Jaskier wasn’t holding him down he’d float away like a kestrel on the breeze. 

His heart races like a thoroughbred and his ribs ache from containing it. Fingers gently dance over them, playing some unheard tune, and he thinks giddily that Jaskier is a master not just of the lute but of  _ Geralt.  _

He’s not sure how long he drifts, there in Jaskier’s arms—time loses meaning and all he can do is lay there and  _ feel _ . His body thrums with energy and his head feels light on his shoulders, pleasure humming through him like a tuning fork that’s been struck. 

“--so well Geralt, my  _ gods _ , you were stunning my love.”

Hearing Jaskier’s voice suddenly makes him realize that he’d gotten so lost in sensation that his body had shut out sound and the realization of the world around him. Now that it’s back he can hear the way he’s whining softly, how Jaskier’s heart is beating steadily in his chest and every single word of praise that Jaskier is showering him in. He turns his face weakly into Jaskier’s throat and breathes unsteadily, licking his lips as he shakes and moans faintly, shuddering at the gentle touch of Jaskier’s fingers against his hair. 

“You were  _ so _ lovely my wolf, so good just letting go and feeling everything.” 

He smiles weakly and nuzzles his nose into Jaskier’s throat, inhaling the scent of their spend on their skin, thoroughly enjoying the way it's mixed together. Jaskier pets his hair gently, the smile apparent in his voice as he speaks. “You were positively heavenly my dear,” he murmurs, “my very own star, here in my arms.”

Geralt blushes and makes a soft noise of embarrassment, enjoying the way Jaskier holds him tighter in response. 

They stay like that till the water is cool enough to be uncomfortable and he’s still not back to himself. He floats on leftover sensation and the euphoria bubbling inside him is like champagne—sweet and tart and delicious. He hums as Jaskier slides his fingers into his hair and massages his scalp gently. 

It’s the perfect thing—easy and familiar and it leaves him so so warm and soft he could just melt right into Jaskier and fall asleep. 

“We do need to wash that cream out of your hair darling,” Jaskier murmurs thoughtfully, a note of amusement in his voice. “Why don’t we get out and I’ll have you bend over the tub and I can use some water that hasn’t been sullied with our cum to rinse it out,” he suggests, a hint of laughter in his voice when Geralt grumbles but nods in agreement. 

It takes a few minutes for feeling to return fully to his legs and when he stands he finds he needs Jaskier to hold him steady. It’s shameful and he blushes, ducking his head under Jaskier’s gentle knowing smile. “No one here but us,” Jaskier reminds him, “and I’m hardly going to make fun of you my dear,” he says gently. Geralt nods tiredly, head fuzzy and slow, leaning heavily on Jaskier as he’s guided to bend forward over the edge of the tub. 

Jaskier fills a cup from the carafe of water paired with their small basin for washing hands and faces and then plucks the tie from his hair and begins rinsing the cream from his hair with gentle hands. Jaskier is pressed fully up against Geralt and he can feel the soft hair on his chest and the warmth of his limp cock against his ass. 

He’s a line of heat against Geralt, warm and comforting and familiar. Geralt shudders and sways at the soothing stimulation to his scalp, gasping weakly as his body tries to decide if it’s too much or just right. When Jaskier deems his hair finished, he’s guided away from the tub and in front of the fire where he’s gently dried off, the rough fabric of the bath cloth making him shiver and shake. He’s unsteady on his feet as Jaskier smiles at him, blue eyes like crystals, hands gentle and warm against his overheated and sensitive skin. 

He sways faintly and Jaskier loops an arm around his waist, pressing them together, hip to hip. “Hello darling,” Jaskier breathes, a smile warming his lovely face and Geralt can’t help the flush that rises to his cheeks at the sweet name Jaskier always calls him. In turn, Jaskier pets his cheek and smiles fondly when Geralt leans into it, chasing the warmth of his touch. 

He’s clumsy at it, but he manages to turn his chin and press a kiss to Jaskier’s palm, a wordless thanks for everything, a promise of things he cannot yet bring himself to say, a silent proclamation of everything he feels and does not have words for. 

Jaskier’s face softens with fondness and he leans in to kiss Geralt, sweet and soft and surprising. It had been one thing to do it while they had been—but this…Geralt leans into it, exhaling unsteadily as Jaskier’s fingers draw patterns on his hip and his lips press firmly to Geralt’s. 

They are of a height so Geralt barely has to lean down, but when Jaskier’s teeth catch playfully at his lip again he quakes and is caught by strong arms. Jaskier laughs softly and kisses his jaw, “Come my wolf, to bed,” he orders, strong arms shifting to keep him on his feet as he sways tiredly and leans heavily on Jaskier. 

He’s guided into the bed and turns on his side, smiling softly when Jaskier leans in to kiss him—short and sweet and lovely. 

He watches through heavy eyelids as Jaskier putters around the room, stil naked, laying down cloths to soak up the water Geralt had spilled with his thrashing. His skin glows in the firelight, the long lean lines of muscle fascinating Geralt as Jaskier moves about their room. He’s not bulky like Geralt, no, he’s built like a runner—lean and strong in a different way and Geralt can’t help but admire his body. 

He’d like to touch it in return he thinks, maybe not now when he’s half awake, but someday soon. 

If Jaskier wants. 

He thinks on the way Jaskier had touched him, talked to him,  _ kissed  _ him, and thinks maybe Jaskier might want that too. He’s not sure how to go about asking for it, he’s not the one with pretty words, but he thinks that Jaskier will probably know, will smile that fond smile at him and call him  _ darling _ and take him into his arms. 

A log is added to the fire and the candles are blown out, plunging the room into a hazy warm orange glow that makes Geralt think of the long winter nights by the fire at Kaer Morhen. He thinks Jaskier might like to see the only place he’s ever called home and resolves to ask him—perhaps not tomorrow, but soon. 

Jaskier smiles at him as he slides under the covers, just as naked as Geralt, hands soft from the water as he lays one against Geralt’s chest and the other cups his cheek gently. “How are you?” he asks softly, concern in the quiet question. His thumb strokes Geralt’s cheek, eyes searching and Geralt finds that he doesn’t want to hide from him anymore--wonders if maybe after all this if he’ll even be  _ able  _ to hide himself from Jaskier again. 

Smiling stupidly, he closes his eyes and leans forward to press his brow into Jaskier’s. 

“Perfect,” he breathes, humming softly when Jaskier’s scent spikes with happiness. It’s warm like the sun and he basks in it, nudging his nose against Jaskier’s as exhaustion binds itself to his bones and demands he sleeps. 

Fingers trail over his cheek and he smiles, breathing Jaskier’s name. 

“Yes, you really are my love,” Jaskier murmurs, “absolutely perfect.” 

It’s the last thing Geralt hears before sleep claims him, a phantom kiss on his lips making his slow steady heartbeat stutter for a moment before evening out. 

Perfection. 

**Author's Note:**

> Saw this on Tumblr and I think it's a lovely idea--feel free to copy and paste into your own fics!!  
> Emoji Key for those who don't know what to say in the comments!  
> ❤ = you wish you could kudos again  
> 😭 = I got you right in the feels  
> 🔥 = this was so hot!  
> 🐰 = it’s so fluffy!


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